August 28.

If my ills would admit of any cure, they would certainly be cured
here. This is my birthday, and early in the morning I received a
packet from Albert. Upon opening it, I found one of the pink
ribbons which Charlotte wore in her dress the first time I saw her,
and which I had several times asked her to give me. With it were
two volumes in duodecimo of Wetstein’s “Homer,” a book I had often
wished for, to save me the inconvenience of carrying the large
Ernestine edition with me upon my walks. You see how they anticipate
my wishes, how well they understand all those little attentions
of friendship, so superior to the costly presents of the great,
which are humiliating. I kissed the ribbon a thousand times, and
in every breath inhaled the remembrance of those happy and irrevocable
days which filled me with the keenest joy. Such, Wilhelm, is our
fate. I do not murmur at it: the flowers of life are but visionary.
How many pass away, and leave no trace behind  how few yield any
fruit  and the fruit itself, how rarely does it ripen! And yet
there are flowers enough! and is it not strange, my friend, that
we should suffer the little that does really ripen, to rot, decay,
and perish unenjoyed?

Farewell! This is a glorious summer. I
often climb into the trees in Charlotte’s orchard, and shake down
the pears that hang on the highest branches. She stands below,
and catches them as they fall.